


Handle With Care

by melo



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Stitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 09:35:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melo/pseuds/melo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik is used to pain. What he's not used to is someone caring about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handle With Care

**Author's Note:**

> For [this](http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/7315.html?thread=12389011#t12389011) prompt at 1stclass_kink.
> 
> Originally posted on LJ

Erik isn’t sure of how he received his latest wound.  
  
Most likely, Erik’s arm was slashed by the debris thrown about on one of Sean’s flybys. As amusing as Erik finds Sean’s girlish screams, there’s something to be said about their power when trees are accidentally blown to pieces while Sean tries to maintain flight.  
  
Had it been someone else, Erik would think Sean was taking revenge for the satellite dish incident, but it’s difficult to imagine when the boy’s head is so often in the clouds; figuratively and now also literally. Erik knows what it takes to seek revenge, no matter how petty, and Sean just doesn’t have it in him.  
  
What Sean also lacks is control, and Erik reminds himself to give Sean an extra special training session because upon entering the mansion kitchen, Erik had been greeted with the sound of shattering glass, though this bout of destruction had nothing to do with Sean and everything to do with the floppy haired man at the sink.  
  
“Erik!” Charles hadn’t quite shouted, “What’s happened to your arm?”  
  
There had been no metal for Erik to shield himself with, but he’d been certain he’d come out of the woods with little more than a splinter until now.   
  
Taking his first look at his right arm, Erik is surprised to see that the dampness he’d assumed to be sweat or pond water is in fact blood; a fair amount of blood which stands out brightly against the grey fabric of his sweats.  
  
“Oh,” Erik replies. “Hmm.”  
  
Erik turns on his heel, fully intending to go to his room so he might wash up and tend his own wounds, but he’s stopped by the soapy hand Charles slaps onto his shoulder.  
  
“Sit down, you,” Charles frowns, forcing Erik into a chair at the kitchen table. “I’ll get the first aid.”   
  
“It’s fine, Charles. I’ll–” But then Charles is gone, vanished to where ever he keeps the first aid, which could well be a team of medical personnel stashed in the underground bunker next to the thirty year supply of tinned foods.   
  
Erik is almost puzzled when Charles scurries back with a large biscuit tin in hand. It must be the first aid kit, but it’s neither special issue nor store bought, and Erik doesn’t know what to make of it when Charles sits down in the chair next to Erik’s and pops the lid off to reveal a full stock of basic medical supplies. There are packages of bandages and gauze, tubes of ointment, bottles of antiseptic, pills, and little metal tools all crammed in with no organization whatsoever. It looks almost like Erik’s personal kit, right down to the scuffs and dents in the box and differing only in the brand of biscuit the tin had originally contained.  
  
“You still haven’t answered my question,” Charles reminds him as he uses scissors to snip through Erik’s bloodied sleeve, revealing the wound on his forearm and the congealing blood on his skin. Charles’ brows knit together at the sight.   
  
“Just a training accident,” Erik says, reaching out with his other hand to pat Charles awkwardly on the knee. “I’ll take care of it while you clean up the glass in the sink. It wouldn’t do for the children to cut their hands doing dishes.”   
  
“As if anyone would voluntarily wash the dishes,” Charles scoffs as he sterilizes his tools. “I’m on dish duty, no one else will be touching the sink today, and I’m going to take care of you so sit still and stop fidgeting.”   
  
Erik stiffens the leg he’d been bouncing and stills the fingers he’d been drumming on the kitchen table, trying to ignore the disquiet he feels at having his injury scrutinized and prodded by someone other than himself. The sting of the iodine Charles uses to clean his wound is a much more familiar discomfort, but Erik has to keep his eyes locked on Charles’ hands when Charles mops gently at his injury.  
  
“Looks worse than it is, really,” Erik says as the slash on his arm becomes clear. “It’s hardly a scratch.”  
  
“This is at least six stitches, Erik,” Charles’ frown deepens. “And I don’t care if you’ve had worse,” he says, cutting Erik off before he’s even opened his mouth, “just think how much quicker it’ll be if you let me help.”  
  
Eriks sighs and grits his teeth as Charles does one last check for foreign material in Erik’s wound before drying the area and threading a curved needle with curiously practiced ease. In truth, it would probably be quicker if Erik took care of it himself, considering his metal-manipulating powers, but something about the set of Charles’ jaw keeps Erik quiet.   
  
It’s aggravating how tense he is under Charles’ ministrations, and the worst of it is that this tension isn’t the usual sort Erik associates with Charles. There’s no heat pooling in his gut from Charles leaning in too close and Erik’s skin isn’t prickling from Charles’ fingers brushing feather soft against him.   
  
Then forceps are pinching the edges of his wound together. The bite of the needle piercing his skin hardly registers and Erik feels strangely detached from his body, as if he’s retreating into the sliver of metal Charles pulls expertly through his flesh, and it’s a dangerously familiar sensation.   
  
Erik’s beyond thankful that the kitchen is mostly wood and warm colours, but that doesn’t stop the cutlery from rattling imperceptibly in their drawer as Erik tries to suppress images of white walls and white lights, silver instruments and leather straps.   
  
“Do you do a lot of sewing?” Erik asks as a poor way to distract himself, tearing his eyes away from the hypnotic loop of the needle to fix on Charles’ downturned face. “Embroidery? Do you perhaps crochet? I noticed that you have a great number of doilies in the drawing room.”  
  
“Well, no. I don’t sew or embroider and I certainly do not crochet. I’ve never even mended a pair of trousers,” Charles says, bemused. He pauses mid-stitch to look Erik in the eye, lips curved up in a pink crescent. “Are you complimenting my skill with a needle or am I being mocked?”  
  
“A bit of both,” Erik relaxes, calmed by the serene blue of Charles’ eyes. He’s almost disappointed when Charles returns to his work with a huff, tipping his head back down and sending a few locks of hair tumbling over his forehead.  
  
“I’ll have you know, the doilies were all bought by my mother and they happen to fit quite nicely with the drawing room decor.”   
  
“Of course they do,” Erik agrees easily, “so how is it you haven’t yet lost the needle in my arm if you spend as little time sewing as you claim?”  
  
Charles ducks his head closer to Erik’s arm, biting his lip as his concentration seems to double. If Erik didn’t know any better, he’d think Charles had come across a tricky area of the wound, but Erik has sutured his own injuries countless times in hotels all over Europe, and seconds ago Charles’ fingers had held the needle deftly, so he knows Charles’ sudden need to focus is feigned.  
  
“Charles... where did you learn to do this?” Erik narrows his eyes suspiciously, an unpleasant weight slowly settling at the base of his lungs, “Did you pick up some basic medical training in Oxford?”  
  
“Ah, yes,” Charles nods, “many people learned a bit of first aid while at Oxford.”  
  
“But you weren’t one of them, were you.”  
  
Charles doesn’t answer, and Erik feels an invisible vice grip his insides, seeming to squeeze his blood through his veins, pumping it with twice the usual pressure. Erik half expects a red fountain to shoot up between the fresh stitches on his arm. However, before Erik can find a direction to throw his anger or gather his wits to shake an answer out of Charles, the other man releases Erik’s arm and pulls away with a too-cheerful grin.  
  
“All done; good as new,” Charles says, standing up and quickly packing his supplies away. “Just be careful not to pull your stitches.”  
  
Erik glances down to see his arm neatly wrapped with bandages and he wonders if Charles had at any point frozen his mind.  
  
“Charles,” Erik says warningly, but Charles only quickens the speed of his clean up and blithely ignores him.   
  
Then Charles starts to babble about chores and the future of dishwashing machines as a common household appliance, and that maybe Hank should design one for the mansion as it would be handy and undoubtedly more reliable than the clunky first generation monstrosity Charles regrets installing, because it’s really a terrible fixture that’s shattered more dinnerware than its cleaned and Charles needs to start controlling his impulse to purchase every new technological wonder that–  
  
Erik is not a patient man, and when he repeats Charles’ name and only hears more about Charles’ marvellous kitchen gadgets, he reaches out to the metal of Charles’ wristwatch and belt buckle and forces him back into his chair.   
  
“Who hurt you?” Erik asks without preamble, his hand shooting out to seize Charles’ wrist when the other man moves to stand again.  
  
“Whatever do you mean, my friend?”  
  
“Suturing a wound isn’t as simple as sewing; it takes practice to do well. And this,” Erik gestures at his bandaged arm, “was done well.”  
  
Erik stares Charles down, daring him to lie when Charles’ powers had denied Erik the luxury of hiding his own past.   
  
Charles meets Erik’s eyes steadily, his reluctance to speak clear in the twist of his lips, and somehow Erik knows that, were he anyone else, Charles would have remained unmoved and silent. But they are who they are and Charles coaxes Erik’s hand to loosen from his wrist before finally taking a breath to speak.  
  
“There were a few incidents when I was a child – honestly, just a few.”  
  
“Incidents?” Erik echoes, observing the shadows cast by Charles’ lashes, his eyes hooded as he rubs at the red marks left by Erik’s grip on his wrist.  
  
“My stepfather was a harsh man, and I was far from best friends with his son,” Charles shrugs, looking strangely young in his cardigan – the one with the hole in the cuff that’s just a size too large. “My mother had enough of her own troubles and there was no need to bother her when I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”  
  
Charles stops talking then, and he’s only used three sentences in his explanation, but it’s more than enough. Erik is no telepath, but he doesn’t need to be. He reads body language and he sees weariness in the set of Charles’ shoulders and acceptance in the hands held loosely in his lap, like the pain he’d been dealt – wounds he needed to stitch up by himself – were as mundane in his boyhood as spelling tests and ballgames.   
  
Erik knows what it means to suffer – has seen and felt the worst – and there’s no way Charles endured anything near his levels, but it’s not a contest of who had it worse. Erik had mocked Charles when he’d first seen the mansion, but now, looking at the first aid kit which is so much like his own, Erik wishes he hadn’t said a thing.  
  
Charles must have caught Erik’s gaze lingering on the biscuit tin because he grins at Erik, “I assembled it myself. It’s nothing fancy but it’s served me well.” Charles pats the top of his first aid kit like one would a prized pet, “It came in quite handy this one time Raven fell out of a tree. I did warn her about the old oak’s rotted branches, but she’s always been such a spirited girl.”  
  
Erik grunts, not at all mislead by Charles’ inane chatter though it takes some effort to shrug off the calming influence of his presence – an unwelcome thing when Erik wants to hold onto his anger. Currently, Charles is respecting Erik’s privacy, but Erik can feel him fluttering around the edges of his mind like a butterfly against a window pane.   
  
“How can you just sit there?” Erik asks, fingers curling and uncurling in the grey fabric over his thigh.  
  
Charles arches one eyebrow, “As opposed to...?”  
  
“Are you not angry?” Erik nearly growls, willing Charles to react, to ignite with something darker than enthusiasm or compassion for once. “You are no longer a boy and you have the ability to bring your tormentors to their knees, yet I’m sure you’ve done nothing but–”  
  
“Yes, I am no longer a boy,” Charles interrupts, eyes narrowing, “and I possess a great ability, but my stepfather is long dead and I haven’t seen my stepbrother in years.” Charles sighs and runs his hand through his hair, “It’s not that I love my stepbrother or that I’ve forgiven him for his abuse, but everything that was done is done.”  
  
Charles leans forwards, reaching out to hold Erik’s bandaged arm still between his two hands, “There’s nothing left to show for it but a few scars, and in the face of what happiness I have now, they matter not at all.” The tension falls away from Charles’ face and the grim set of his mouth is replaced by a small smile, an expression that is unbearably soft, and Erik feels Charles’ gaze like a physical pressure. Charles’ grip is hardly present at his wrist and elbow, but Erik’s sure Charles can feel how his pulse jumps at the touch, beating double time with the remnants of his anger and something Erik would rather not identify. “I think I’ve done a fair job of patching you up. With luck, you won’t scar at all.”  
  
As if on cue, a hundred old aches flare up, the tattoo on his left arm particularly bright, and Erik shakes off the illusion of sensation, knowing it to be just memories, bad memories. Today, the only injury on his person is a neatly stitched cut on his right arm, bandaged securely and held in Charles’ hands.  
  
It occurs to Erik, then – quietly, like a secret whispered in his ear – that this is the first time in a long time that somebody tended his wounds just because they didn’t want to see him hurt.  
  
He swallows thickly and makes a note of the lack of metal cups in the mansion. His throat is parched and his eyes prickle in the dry air of the kitchen, but he can’t get up from his chair to fetch a drink, not while Charles is looking at him with such open care. It would take no effort to escape from Charles’ grip, but a thirst for water he can easily ignore; the warmth unfurling in his chest, not so much.  
  
It’s odd to realize that he’s content with the way things are, but Erik just stays where he sits and tries not to blink too much. He slides his arm through Charles’ hands until they are palm to palm and soaks up Charles’ impossible goodness. That Charles doesn’t flinch away from the hand which had just moments ago shackled his wrist in a bruising grip tells of a kind of trust Erik doesn’t understand, though he wonders if one day, with enough exposure, he might.  
  
“Even if I did scar,” Erik says, voice hoarse and unfamiliar, “this is one mark I would gladly bear.”  
  
“That is...” Charles squints at Erik like he would at a bright light, before shaking his head and drawing his lips into a firm red line. He doesn’t finish his thought, and for a wild moment Erik thinks that Charles’ lips would align perfectly with the closed edges of his wound.   
  
Erik hopes he didn’t broadcast that thought.  
  
A fond look settles in Charles’ eyes, and if he heard Erik, he gives no sign. Charles just smiles and turns Erik’s hand, tilting their still touching palms until their fingers align and Erik can see just how easily he could encompass Charles’ smaller hand.  
  
“I do wonder about the things you can do,” Charles says, as if to himself.  
  
“You’ve seen what I can do. It’s thanks to you I could move a satellite dish.”  
  
“Yes,” Charles slots his fingers between Erik’s, and Erik’s fingers curl automatically, locking them in place, “but I’m not sure you understand what your power is at all.”  
  
“Charles?” Erik frowns, not sure if he should be offended by Charles’ words, or if he should take it in stride as one of those things Charles sometimes says, being the dreamer that he is.  
  
Charles waves his free hand dismissively through the air, then grins, a mischievous edge to the expression as he leans closer to Erik, shortening the distance between their faces until Erik can almost count the blue slivers in Charles’ eyes. “You’ve moved something very large, but how about something very small?”   
  
“Such as?” Erik asks cautiously.   
  
“Drinking glasses are about three fourths silica, and silica is a compound of silicon and oxygen,” Charles says, his seemingly endless supply of enthusiasm bubbling up and spilling over. “Now oxygen is a non-metal, but silicon is a metalloid – a diamagnetic element, true, but combined with another metal it could become magnetic,” Charles runs his tongue over his lower lip, pausing for effect. Erik wonders if passion has a taste, “and wouldn’t it be interesting if you could manipulate on such a small scale?”  
  
Charles looks pointedly at him then, and Erik snorts, on the verge of laughing with disbelief. “Charles, you just want me to clean up that mess in the sink.”  
  
“Of course not,” Charles’ grin widens and his hand tightens around Erik’s. “We’ll clean it up together.”


End file.
